


Pagan Angel

by LadyLokiLaufeyson



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Religious, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Church Sex, Georgia, Horror, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monsters, Nightmares, Predator/Prey, Priest Kink, Psychological Horror, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Southern Gothic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6704035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLokiLaufeyson/pseuds/LadyLokiLaufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Benjamin Organa-Solo lives a life of repentance as a priest in his grandfather's hometown of Madison, Georgia. But things get exceedingly complicated for Ben when an unusual Northerner sweeps into town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pagan Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song [Beautiful Dangerous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7tkm3nKmbY) by Slash feat. Fergie
> 
> Thanks to my Southern™ Friends for helping me with some of the details. 
> 
> Anyway I love southern gothic AUs so I decided to write one for kylux! Enjoy!

_ “I’ll be your _

_ slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue _

_ and final resting - ” _

\- Richard Siken, _ “Wishbone” _

  
  


**Madison, Georgia: Sunday, 5:30am**

 

Father Ben Solo stood over the cast iron stove in his kitchen, sweat beading on his forehead as he shuffled two pink, perfect strips of bacon around the pan. It was an oppressively muggy day and Ben tugged on his collar, feeling like it was choking him. He absently wondered if he took it off, would the skin underneath be rubbed raw; bright red standing out against his pale throat. Ben shook the thought as he slipped the spatula under the crisp bacon and neatly deposited it on his plate, next to sunny yellow eggs and golden toast. 

 

Ben sat down at his modest wood table, saying grace before taking a long sip of homemade orange juice and methodically eating his food in the detached way of someone who ate out of sheer necessity rather than want. He turned his wrist over and pulled up his sleeve, revealing his grandfather’s watch. He had 20 minutes to get to the church and prepare for Sunday service before his parishioners swarmed into the pews at 8 o’clock on the dot, all of them dressed in their finest clothes and ready to be filled the word of the Lord like hummingbirds fill their soft bellies with nectar. 

 

Ben finished his breakfast and mechanically washed his dishes, murmuring the day’s plans under his breath. When he was done, he took his leather bag from where it rested on the hall tree by the front door and stepped outside into the hot air. Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked down the drive to his Cadillac, another heirloom of his grandfather’s. Hefting his bag into the passenger seat and slamming the door closed behind him, Father Ben Solo peeled off towards town, a dust cloud springing up in the car’s wake. 

 

**Madison, Georgia: Sunday, 9:00am**

 

Ben had just finished his sermon. His dark hair clung to his face and his eyes stung from sweat. He’d given an electrifying service, he knew it, it was as if he could  _ feel _ it in the air. The way the room was almost vibrating with the excited buzz of the church-goers voices told him he’d struck a chord with his fire-and-brimstone routine. He heard people’s comments like  _ ‘the only damn youngin’ ‘round here with some sense in his head’ _ and  _ ‘he’s what this town needed _ ’ and felt the distinct feeling of being satisfied, tinged with a hint of guilt.

 

_ ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’ _ he reminded himself as he wiped sweat from his brow with a crisp white handkerchief. He folded it neatly and put it in his pocket when he saw an older couple coming up to him. He cordially shook their hands and began making small talk, quoting scripture here and there, all the usual things.  

 

His conversation was interrupted by the scream of a child just outside the church. This wasn’t the common delighted scream of a child at play, no, this was the cry of a child in abject danger. The couple snapped their heads toward the sound and turned worried looks back on him, he excused himself and hurriedly strided to the church doors, pushing them open in one motion and searching for the source of the yell. Rounding the corner of the church, he froze, seeing the source of the scream as well as the culprit behind it. 

 

A length away, a little girl in a soft pink dress and her hair in ringlets stood in the grass, stretching a pudgy hand out towards a tall, thin man with a horrible shock of red hair who was holding a lollipop out to her between two long, pale fingers. The man looked up at Ben’s approach, his eyes seeming to shimmer oddly in the sunlight for a split second. He allowed the little girl to snatch the lollipop out of his hand before coolly slipping his hand into his pocket, mirroring his other hand. 

 

A small crowd had gathered behind Ben at this point, and he heard the confused, curious, and angry murmurs behind him. This man was a newcomer, an outsider, and suspicious one at that, if the little girl’s scream was anything to go by. 

 

The man seemed unfazed at the attention he was drawing and began to make his way to Ben, padding through the grass as if he had all the time in the world. Stopping directly in front of Ben, he pulled his lips up into a smile, bearing rows of perfect white teeth - with unusually sharp canines - Ben noted. 

 

“Sorry to disturb your morning, Father,” the man said, his accent strange, a meddled cross of something foreign and something Northern. “I will say that girlie has a set of lungs on her though - I didn’t expect all that commotion,” he finished, still smiling lazily.

 

“What’re you doing in this here town?” Ben asked bluntly “what were you doing with that little girl, the way she screamed would be to put the fear of the Lord into anyone,” he continued, unnerved by the man in front of him. There was something off about him. Something inherently  _ wrong _ . 

 

“I didn’t mean any harm, I was only being kind. You’ll find I’m a very charitable man,” the stranger said, taking a step closer to Ben. At this proximity, Ben could see that the man had bright, Virgina Bluebell eyes, a spray of freckles across his nose and cheekbones, and was of nebulous age. He could’ve been 16 or 36 for all Ben knew.

 

“Yeah well we don’t want your Yankee charity! Especially if it means giving up our kids to some pedophile!” a man behind Ben jeered angrily, causing a smattering of people to clammer in agreement with him.

 

The man’s face shifted into a look of shock, as if he was disturbed by the very notion of his actions being seen as anything sinister. Ben guessed it was more of a well-practiced reaction than genuine shock. 

 

“I would never harm a child! She was simply spooked when I came up to her, startled the little angel, I did,” the man said, holding his arms out, palms up, in a non-threatening gesture. “Now if we could just forget all of this ever happened and start over, let me introduce myself. My name is Brendol Hux the Second and I would like to make a generous donation to this lovely town that I’ll be making myself comfortable in for the foreseeable future,”

 

**Madison, Georgia: Sunday, 12:00pm**

 

It was mid-afternoon and Ben sat in a tiny cafe, tucked away in the corner, his Bible open in front of him and a half-eaten panini resting to the side. He tried to focus on picking out verses for next week’s sermon but his mind kept wandering back to the strange man, Brendol, from earlier. Ben had directed him to the local government building to find the help he needed with his “generous donation” and had heard nothing of him since then. The townspeople had begrudgingly let Ben lead him away without further interrogation, and he took time out after to assure them that it was all fine and to have faith. Perhaps the excitement of the morning had ran everyone’s nerves high and the scream had sounded much worse than it really was. They should all try to be welcoming; Ben himself had been a stranger at one point too, he reminded them.

 

There was something niggling at Ben’s brain though, a nagging feeling that there was something he was missing about the man - or, something that the man was purposefully concealing - and Ben didn’t like it. He felt like he could nearly put his finger on what unsettled him about Brendol, but whenever he tried, the thought escaped him. Ben’s eyebrow creased unhappily and he decided that he would ask the Lord for advice later that night as he said his nightly prayers. 

 

Ben was highlighting corrections on the previous week’s Sunday school homework when a pale hand reached out and snatched the panini off his plate. Ben jerked his head up, not hearing the person approach, and found himself staring into the endless pools of Brendol’s eyes. 

 

“Brendol,” Ben said, regaining his composure and slipping into his most amiable voice.

 

“Father,” Brendol replied, taking a large bite of Ben’s sandwich, a few stray crumbs catching at the corner of his lips. Ben had the urge to reach out and brush them away, but he pushed that thought away almost as quickly as it’d came into his mind. 

 

“Is there something I can help you with? Besides allowing you to steal my food?” he asked, still trying to sound warm. 

 

“Oh come on, what about give to your neighbors and shit?” Brendol asked, pulling up a chair and sitting across from Ben, still munching on the sandwich. 

 

“That’s not how the scripture goes, nor is it as...colorful as your rendition,” Ben said authoritatively.  

 

Brendol smiled around a mouthful of partially chewed food, revealing those brilliant but grotesque teeth once again. “Was that offensive? I never know what is these days,” Brendol said, not a question but more of a musing to his own self. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked, repeating his question from earlier in the day. People didn’t move here without reason. Some came for the real estate, others for the history, and some, like Ben, came to start a new life. 

 

Brendol’s eyes, which now looked like a great, green sea, scanned lazily around the cafe. “Eating,” he replied nonchalantly. 

 

“I can see, but what are you doing  _ here _ . In Madison,” Ben restated his question.

 

“What are  _ you _ ?” Brendol asked, flipping the question back on Ben. He stood up and dropped the panini out of his slim fingers, and like a wisp of smoke, only to be known for a second, he was gone.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Sunday, 10:00pm**

 

Ben returned late, weary and fatigued from the day. His eyelids were closed as soon as his body hit the downy bed and he fell into a listless sleep.

 

That night was when the dreams started.

 

Ben felt awake, but he knew he was not awake. In his dream, he felt around in the darkness of his house, trying to find a lamp, a light switch, a window, anything. But all he could see was darkness, all he could feel was the overwhelming enormity of the sheer absence of light. Panic rose in his throat as he began reciting a prayer in his head.

 

_ ‘Our Father who art in Heaven’ _

 

Choking blackness, everywhere. Swallowing Ben whole.

 

_ ‘Hallowed be thy name’ _

 

Wind began to blow somewhere, loud and violent. 

 

_ ‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done’ _

 

Ben scrambled into the bathroom and shut the door. Distantly he remembered the voice of his 3rd grade teacher telling his class to seek a windowless room in the case of a tornado. 

 

_ ‘On earth as it is in heaven’ _

 

The overhead light in the bathroom flicked on with an electric pop and buzz. 

 

_ ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ _

 

Ben turned to the mirror and looked into it desperately.  _ ‘You can’t see your reflection in a dream’ _ . He needed to reassure himself this wasn’t real.

 

_ ‘And forgive us our trespasses’ _

 

Ben could see his reflection in the pristine glass. 

 

_ ‘As we forgive those who trespass against us’ _

 

Something was running out of his nose, out of his eyes, out of his mouth.  _ Blood? _

 

_ ‘And lead us not into temptation’ _

 

Ben moved closer to the mirror and put a shaking hand up to wipe the blood from his eye.

 

_ ‘But deliver us from evil’ _

 

It wasn’t blood. It was thick, black slime, almost like tar. 

 

_ ‘Forever and ever’ _

 

The mirror flickered, almost like a television screen, and Brendol’s bone white face appeared in the mirror in place of Ben’s own.

 

_ “Amen,” _

 

Ben awoke with a scream. 

 

**Madison, Georgia: Monday, 8:30pm**

 

Father Benjamin Organa-Solo, age 30, originally hailing from Atlanta, Georgia, does not sleep this night. 

 

**Madison, Georgia: Tuesday, 8:30pm**

 

Or the next.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Wednesday, 8:30pm**

 

Or the next.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Thursday, 9:30am**

 

Ben sat in the empty pews, so fatigued he could feel the bags weighing at his eyes. He swayed sleepily in the warm sun, squinting at the dust that formed little galaxies in the air. He’d been so tired that he didn’t hear someone approaching him from behind.

 

“Father,” that terrible, strange voice said.

 

Ben started, suddenly wondering if he was in a dream. He hadn’t seen the other man since the day he showed up, and Ben had wondered if his prayers had been answered and the man had simply left. Clearly, that was not the case.

 

Ben twisted himself around in his seat, too tired to rise, and knowing it probably didn’t mean much to the man either way. “Brendol,” he said levelly. 

 

“May I sit?” Brendol asked, gesturing to the empty space beside Ben. 

 

Ben hesitated but then nodded yes, allowing the wispy man to brush past him, smelling like forest air after the first rain. Brendol settled in next to Ben, crossing his legs and staring pensively into the distance. 

 

Ben noted how fine his profile looked, how lovely his fiery hair looked, and how his golden eyelashes were illuminated in the sun. Something like shame filled Ben, twisting low in his gut and threatening to consume him. He looked away hastily, focusing on the pulpit in front of him.

 

“Why don’t you take what you want?” Brendol asked, cutting the silence.

 

“What?” Ben asked, startled.

 

Brendol turned his head to face Ben, flicking his eyes up and down his body lazily. “I know what you want,” he said, his lips tugging up at the corner. 

 

“What do I want?” Ben challenged.

 

“Me,” Brendol said, pouncing on him like a jackal and crashing their lips together.

 

Ben’s breath hitched as Brendol’s fingers tugged at his long hair, making him gasp and open his mouth, which was promptly filled with Brendol’s wet tongue. The kiss set Ben on fire, he burned from head to toe, shaking as Brendol kissed him fiercely. 

 

“We - we can’t do this here,” Ben gasped, pushing Brendol away. Brendol’s shiny, reddened lips looked absolutely obscene and Ben felt a stirring in his groin that he hadn’t felt in years. 

 

“Why not? Let daddy dearest look on while I  _ fuck you _ ,” Brendol snarled, grabbing at Ben’s crotch through his cassock for emphasis. 

 

Ben gasped, putting his hand over Brendol’s and pressing into it desperately. Brendol massaged Ben’s hardening cock through his many layers, causing a tear to slip from Ben’s eye from the friction and how good yet wrong it felt.

 

“Don’t cry,” Brendol said softly, licking the tear away “let me make you feel better,” 

 

Brendol slid off the pew and crawled between Ben’s knees, tugging his cassocks up around his waist and swiftly unzipping Ben’s fly, revealing his dripping cock.

 

“Oh, you are a big one,” Brendol marvelled before touching his tongue to Ben’s cock, causing him to throw his head back and cry out.

 

Ben couldn’t believe this was happening. He was about to submit to base carnal desires in his Father’s holy place, and with another man at that. Suddenly Brendol’s entire mouth was around him, taking his cock like his life depended on it, and Ben couldn’t help but lace his fingers through the other man’s hair and push him down on his cock over and over. 

 

As Ben’s pleasure heightened, he forced Brendol down with renewed vigor, who made the most vulgar choking noises, spit running out of his mouth. Just as Ben was about to release down Brendol’s throat, the other man pulled away, smiling mischievously. 

 

“Hey…” Ben started, but was cut off by Brendol crushing their lips together once again. Ben tasted his own pre-cum in the man’s mouth and was sickened at how it made his dick jump in excitement. 

 

“I told you, I’m going to fuck you in front of daddy,” Brendol whispered into Ben’s ear, and in one swift motion he stood up, taking Ben with him, and changed their positions so that Ben was looking directly at the image of Jesus on the cross that was situated behind the pulpit. Brendol pressed Ben against the pew and ground up into his ass. Ben whined, pressing back; his cock was so painfully hard and he needed to cum soon. 

 

Brendol tugged Ben’s pants down to his ankles and Ben heard him unbuckle his own belt buckle, could practically feel the heat radiating off the other man’s cock. Ben heard a squelch and then one of Brendol’s slim fingers was circling his hole. Ben squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the drag and burn as Brendol worked the digit in.

 

“Are you a virgin?” Brendol asked, sounding breathless. 

 

Ben flushed even though Brendol couldn’t see him and Brendol took his silence as an answer. 

 

“Oh, I am going to have fun with you,” he said, slipping a second finger in. 

 

Two fingers turned into three, and by the time Brendol thought Ben was sufficiently prepared, Ben was nearly sobbing with the strain of not being allowed to cum. 

 

“Do you have a rosary?” Brendol asked suddenly.

 

“Y-yes...right pocket,” Ben breathed.

 

Brendol snaked his hand into Ben’s pocket and pulled out the rosary, chuckling to himself. Ben didn’t understand until Brendol put the rosary over his head and twisted it around his hand, choking Ben. Before he had time to comment on that, Brendol pushed into him in one forceful motion, causing Ben to suck in a garbled breath. 

 

“Fuck, you’re perfect...so ripe and rich for taking,” Brendol breathed, pulling out and then slamming himself back into Ben “made to be broken,”

 

Tears welled in Ben’s eyes as he impaled himself again and again on Brendol’s cock, shifting so that it hit his prostate with every vicious thrust. Ben was sure he could feel Brendol’s cock in his stomach, piercing his intestines like a sword. 

 

Ben’s head began to dip down and Brendol jerked it back up with the rosary, using his other hand to grab Ben’s chin and make him look at the image in front of him again. “What do you think He’d say? About you taking my cock like a whore right in front of Him, in His holy house?” Brendol said, voice thick with lust. Ben sobbed, tears rolling down his eyes from the asphyxiation and the delayed release. 

 

“I’m going to fill you with my cum just like He fills you with the Spirit,” Brendol said, thrusting faster “you’d like that wouldn’t you, you filthy, blasphemous whore?” Brendol said, and that was when Ben broke, arching back into Brendol with a shout and locking eyes with the image in front of him before coating the mahogany pew in front of him with pearly ribbons of semen. 

 

Brendol gave one final, vicious tug on the rosary and it snapped, the beads raining down on the floor around them as he gasped, pumping rope after rope of cum into Ben’s pliant ass. They stayed there, debauched and panting, for a few seconds before Brendol pulled out and tucked himself away carefully as the enormity of the situation began to hit Ben. 

 

Ben looked at his own release covering the pews, felt Brendol’s semen trickling out of his ass, and began to shake, horrified at what he’d done. At what Brendol had done.  

 

He threw up.

 

It was black.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Friday, 11:00pm**

 

It was a cool Georgia night, cicadas buzzing in the trees, the stars winking in the black wall that was the sky. This was the night that Brendol Hux II asked Father Ben Solo to run away with him.

 

“Come, be with me, we’ll be like unto gods,” Brendol enthused, standing in Ben’s living room.

 

“I’m not what you think I am,” Ben said hesitantly, dredging up memories of his past.

 

“Neither am I,” Brendol replied.

 

“I reckon you’re not like anybody I’ve ever met,” Ben agreed.

 

“If I told you I was God’s most beautiful creation, would you believe me?” 

 

“No,” Ben said, amused.

 

“What if I showed you?” Brendol whispered, and before Ben could voice his confusion - Brendol  _ changed _ .

 

Brendol’s eyes rolled back into his head and glazed over with black, like the tar in Ben’s dreams, in his throat, in his soul. Ben wanted to scream but the sound died in his throat, snuffed out by his abject fear. Never in his life had he felt so afraid and helpless. He didn’t even know what he was looking at.

 

Brendol was everything and nothing all at once. He was light and darkness. He was the end and the beginning. 

 

Brendol was blurry for a second, moving a million miles a minute before he stopped and Ben felt like he might throw up. Where Brendol’s face should’ve been - there was nothing, or, there was something that was altogether nothing. Brendol shook again, faster this time if that was possible, and this time he manifested as light itself, so bright that Ben’s eyes felt like they were being seared out of his skull. 

 

_ ‘This must be what it feels like to die,’ _ Ben said to himself, hands quaking and knees threatening to give out on him any second.

 

Brendol changed again, into something humanesque but wholly not human. His skin shimmered, as if he had thousands of gemstones buried in his skin. As if you could cut him open and in place of intestines, a lifetime of fortune would fall out. 

 

Brendol changed once again, and this was the most horrifying transformation of all. Ben had no words for what he was seeing, no prayer to expel Brendol, no scripture to comfort him in the face of what was before him. The words  _ ‘eldritch abomination’ _ rung loudly in Ben’s mind. Brendol was no more than a sound, a high pitched screeching sound, coupled with what Ben could only call a tear in reality. The space reminded Ben of static from a malfunctioning TV and he finally let himself go, falling to his knees and vomiting blood, blood, blood. The blood turned into black sludge and Ben could feel it in his body - surrounding him, overtaking him. It filled up his eyes and weighed down his head and poured out of his ears. If he took a knife to his veins he was sure he’d bleed tar. 

 

Ben collapsed into the puddle of his own vomit and blood, tears rolling out of his eyes, and knew he deserved this - deserved this for what he’d done all those years ago. He’d been foolish to think he could return to his grandfather’s hometown and start a new life, living a lie and hiding himself. He was foolish to think he could hide from the Lord’s judgement behind piety and prayer.

 

He’d tried so hard. 

 

He’d tried so hard to be holy. 

 

He was holy. 

 

He’d  _ been _ holy.

 

 **Madison, Georgia: Saturday,** **11:30pm**

 

Father Ben Solo didn’t go to church that day. His Cadillac stayed parked in the drive and his cassock stayed neatly hung in his closet. Instead, Ben sat shirtless on the floor of his bathroom, puking up dark, thick goo all day and rubbing the red ring around his neck where Brendol had wrapped a rosary around his neck while fucking him in a church two days prior.

 

Brendol appeared in the night, drenched in a spray of blood that ran down the front of his beige shirt. Ben didn’t flinch when Brendol came in and took a seat next to him, too hollow and desensitized by the previous night’s events to be surprised at the other man’s state.

 

“It’s your sin,” Brendol said casually.

 

“What is?” Ben asked.

 

“The tar,” Brendol said, wiping a bit off from where it trickled out of Ben’s nose.

 

“Blood, blood is the color of life. Sin, it is all consuming darkness,” Brendol said.

 

“What did you do,” Ben stated more than asked, looking at Brendol’s blood spattered state. 

 

Brendol smiled and took Ben’s handkerchief from where it hung on the edge of the sink and wiped it across his brow, dark blood spreading across the cloth quickly. “I drink virgin blood to contain myself in this earthly vessel,” he said, as if he were talking about the weather.

 

Ben’s eyebrows pulled down, thinking back to the day they first met. “The little girl…?” he guessed, not wanting to hear the answer but also needing to have it confirmed.

 

“She served her purpose,” Brendol said, smiling and showing off his bloody teeth. Ben suddenly understood what the pointed incisors were for. “But you’ve done worse, otherwise it wouldn’t weigh on your soul as it does. Otherwise it wouldn’t consume your very being. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Brendol continued, looking into Ben’s eyes.

 

Ben laughed helplessly, a bitter sound. “What are you?” he asked, exhausted.

 

Brendol frowned ever so slightly. “I told you,” he replied.

 

“You didn’t really,” Ben said.

 

“We can be together, in eternity,” Brendol said, conveniently rerouting the conversation.

 

Ben leaned back against the tub, tilting his head up. “Maybe I don’t want eternity,” he replied.

 

“Maybe you do,” 

 

Ben looked back at the other man - creature - whatever. “How?” he asked.

 

“I can do it with a kiss. Kiss me and you’ll be free, we’ll be free,” Brendol said, sliding closer to Ben.

 

Ben looked into Brendol’s eyes and saw a monster. Upon closer inspection, it was himself. He was a monster, and Brendol was a monster, and monstrosity was all Ben ever knew. 

 

“Okay,” Ben said “okay,”.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Sunday, 12:00am**

 

Brendol’s bloody mouth was on his, and then, and  _ then _ \- nothingness. 

 

Ben smiled.

 

**Madison, Georgia: Present Day**

 

It’s a mystery that haunts the town to this day. An unsolved case. A unspoken betrayal. When Father Benjamin Organa-Solo, age 30, of considerable height and lean frame, dark hair, and serious features disappeared from Madison one day 33 years ago, it’d sent the town into a shock. Their most beloved priest and fierce leader  _ gone _ ? People still talk about him, in hushed whispers as they look at fading pictures of the man. 

 

_ ‘Do you think he was killed?’  _

 

_ ‘Maybe he got tired of this place and just up and left’ _

 

_ ‘Maybe he was  _ **_taken_ ** _ ’ _

 

Everybody remembers the electric preacher with the curling hair and haunted eyes. 

 

Nobody remembers the thin stranger with hair the color of blood and the Devil’s eyes. 


End file.
